All characters are 18 years of age or older. Copyright 2024. All rights reserved.
Welcome to the little college town of Ballister; I hope you enjoy your stay. This is a multi-part serial. If you've arrived at this part without reading the ones before (and you care about plot), you may wish to begin at the first chapter.
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Sam woke the next morning to the sound of the front door slamming. She groaned and rolled to sit on the edge of her bed. A men's polo was conspicuously draped across her desk chair. Ugh. What a night. The door slammed again, so Sam went downstairs to see what was going on.
"You're up," her mom said. "I thought I was going to have to wake you. Good party?"
Sam nodded, too sleepy to make a full report. She also didn't want her mother worrying about her new college social life. The front door slammed yet again as her mom shuttled another box to the car. Her mom always insisted the front door remain closed for fear Hindenburg might wander out. Sam doubted Hindy, who at that moment was lazing on the living room floor in a shaft of sunlight, cared to do much wandering. She stared blankly at the door for a moment, then turned toward the kitchen.
"You remember you'll have to close tonight, right?" her mom called from the front room. "It'll be late when I get home, so go ahead and eat dinner."
Right. Her mom was headed north to check on some vendors for the store. Sam had not remembered, just as she'd not remembered that she'd made a date tonight with the hottest man in the world and that the two commitments were in conflict. After what had happened at the party, the date wasn't happening. Marco had witnessed one of the most embarrassing moments of her life. There was no way he would want to hang out with her in public.
Sam put the kettle on for tea. Hindy, roused by Sam's nearness to the pantry, threaded his way through her legs, eager for a treat. She wasn't about to deny him. Her mom slipped into the kitchen to give her a hug goodbye. After one final slam of the front door, the house went quiet. Sam stood dumbly at the counter listening to the soft rumble of the water warming on the stove. She pulled a couple eggs from the refrigerator. As she set to frying them, she became aware of a dull ache emanating from her scalp. Oh, right. The pink ostrich had pulled her hair.
Nope. She wouldn't spend any more time thinking about those people. She had hoped that college would be different from high school, but now she'd learned the truth. If anything, the social order was worse at Ballister College. Better to find out in her first week than to keep trying. Harumi was right. She should find people who liked what she liked.
It was hard, though, not to think of Kyle and Marco. The handsome, charming swimmer and the strong, gorgeous quarterback. What a pair. What had that bitchy stork called them? The two biggest studs. No, she wouldn't think about them, either. She'd been wrong about the party, so she was almost certainly wrong about them. They were playing a game: two guys competing over the new girl.
But...what if it wasn't a game? Kyle was beautiful and charming and seemingly interested in her life. Marco was huge and a little scary and the most exquisitely attractive human being alive. Well, that was probably an overstatement. Probably. And, she'd have more than a sore scalp this morning if he hadn't stepped in to help her. Marco had plucked Miranda off her as if she were one of the fried eggs Sam was lifting from the pan.
No, no, no. She had to remember who these people were, and who she was. Sam pulled a notebook from her bag before sitting down for her breakfast. She would make a list of what she needed to do for work and school, and that would take her mind off the two biggest studs...stop it, Sam!
***
"I'm already tired, and we have hours to go," said Sam, collapsing onto the bench in front of the employee lockers. Saturday at the Seventh Street Market was the busiest day, and this Saturday was no exception. She'd made an endless series of sandwiches at the deli counter and filled a never-ending supply of plastic containers with potato salad and coleslaw.
"Did you have lunch? You should eat something," Will said as he loaded a rack with trays of bread and buns. "It's a perk of working in a grocery store."
Sam grunted acknowledgment and rolled onto her back. She hadn't had time to eat lunch. Her eyes wandered aimlessly over the heating ducts crisscrossing the ceiling.
"Hey, how was the party?" Will asked.
"Horrible," Sam replied. She told Will a short version of her evening. By the end, her friend stood aghast, a loaf in each hand.
"She hit you?"
"Yeah, and tore my dress. Marco pulled her off me," Sam replied. "Oh god, Marco. I was supposed to go on a date with him this evening."
"This evening? But you're--. Did you tell him you're working?"
"I didn't have a chance."
"You should call Carl. He knows how to close. He can cover for you." Will set the loaves down and walked over to the employee phone list.
"He hates working on the weekend. I don't want to bother him."
"Come on, I can at least check."
"Will," Sam said, squeezing her friend's skinny forearm. He turned to her, phone receiver in one hand. "It isn't real. I'm just a big joke to them. A game. Get the new girl or whatever."
Will put the phone back. "That sucks."
"Yeah, well. I've got to get back up front."
"Okay," Will said, looking dubious.
"Don't call Carl."
"I won't," said Will, raising his hands in surrender.
"You never have enough of these low sodium crackers," the gray-haired woman complained. Sam didn't know her name, only that she came in Saturdays to buy every last box of low sodium Wheat Thins.
"They're a popular item," Sam lied, sweeping the fifth box across the barcode reader. The store sold its entire weekly allotment to one person.
"Could you pl--." The woman halted mid-sentence. Sam watched, puzzled, as the older woman's eyes widened, and her mouth fell open. Frowning, Sam turned around.
"You don't look ready to go to the movies," said Marco.
Holy fucking fuck. Evening light poured through the store's front windows and lit the big man like he was some immaculate conception emerged directly from heaven. Like he was a Michelangelo sculpture dropped improbably into a strip mall. Like he was a Greek god stepping down from his throne on Olympus to buy some low-sodium Wheat Thins.
He looked good and bad and so fucking good. He wore a dark leather jacket over a V-neck white tee. The cotton stretched across his powerful chest. His broad shoulders filled the jacket, and Sam had to swallow hard as her wicked mind inexplicably conjured an image of him busting through the seams. A dark leather belt emphasized his narrow waist, contrasting his gray jeans. He was a chiseled, stylish, well-muscled bad boy tonight, and she, Sam Telnor, nerd extraordinaire, was standing him up.
"I..." Sam began. Shit. She didn't know what to say. He wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to have found her pathetic and not bothered.
"Oh, I'll get this," Will said, appearing from nowhere. "You prefer paper bags, don't you, Mrs. Gentry?" Sam's friend practically shoved her from the small space behind the register.
Sam straightened her apron and walked over to Marco. She should be thinking furiously about what to say, but her mind had turned to sludge.
"Um, I--."
Sam stared at his way-too-gorgeous face. She didn't lose her train of thought; she was nowhere near a railroad. One corner of Marco's lips tipped upward and his awesome good looks became even more alluring. Sam shifted her eyes to his neck, but the swathe of smooth skin there was, yep, equally alluring. She looked a little lower, but the white cotton tee framed the swell of his thick chest muscles. More than alluring. God, she was really messing this up. Tears of frustration sprang to Sam's eyes, followed by shock and mortification. Was she going to cry, here in the store, right in front of him?
"I went by your house but no one was there, so I came here."
Sam still didn't know what to say. This was not supposed to be happening. Marco tried again.
"I'm sorry about last night," he said, his voice so deep and rich she shivered. He was offering her a way to explain. She took it.
"I didn't think, after that, you'd want to go with me."
Marco exhaled softly. "It wasn't your fault. I don't care what people like Miranda think. I want to go on a date with you."
His words drew her eyes back to his face. Marco wore an earnest expression, and his green eyes were so intense his gaze seemed to pin her head in place. She couldn't move. She could barely breathe.
